


Ploys & Decoys

by SeaAnemone



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Illya in glasses, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wordcount: 500-1.000, also sexy fortune telling, no particular order, suggestions are not only welcome they are extremely encouraged!, we've got sexy photo shoots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 18:42:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10927749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaAnemone/pseuds/SeaAnemone
Summary: Moments between two spies who grow closer while pretending to be other people.(A series of one-shots, under 1000 words each, about my favorite 60s dorks having important moments while undercover. No particular order and their relationship status will vary with each one.)





	1. The Photographer

**Author's Note:**

> Tada, another series while I already have two WIPs! *laughs nervously* writing is such a welcome distraction from studying for the LSAT though, that I just wanna throw on every bit that I manage to finish as I finish it...
> 
> I really hope these are enjoyable for you guys c: the second one is completely done but it's late here so I'll be uploading it tomorrow. Please tell me what you think and if you have any undercover scenarios that you'd like to see!! I love you all! <3

 

It was impossibly lucky, Napoleon had said, that this photographer was receiving threats from the same anarchist group U.N.C.L.E. was pursuing, and he knew Waverly well enough to beg for help.

It was, then, a downright miracle that he looked enough like Illya for them to pull off a convincing bait-and-switch scheme.

_Not enough like me_ , Illya had protested.

_You're both blonde, tall. Put on glasses and no one will know the difference. People see what they expect to see._

His thick-framed glasses now smacked against the viewfinder of the camera when he leaned in too far, still adjusting to the added width on his face. These words resurfaced in his mind as he clicked the button absentmindedly.

He refocused on the woman on the other side of the lens, looking carelessly beautiful as those dark curls fell over her shoulders. He wondered what _she_ expected to see, whenever she looked at him.

He got a shot of Gaby adjusting the thin blue strap falling off her shoulder. One of her laugh, teeth flashing, when he told her the story of Solo tripping in his new brogues as they ran from security guards on their last operation in Glasgow. It felt like a very natural cover, Gaby being herself and Illya marveling at it. He was suddenly very thankful for the extra distance the camera gave between them, the added safety.

When he was fiddling with the settings or changing the lens, eyes focused downward, Gaby studied him too. She liked Illya in glasses, features softened and scholarly. With the right haircut, he could fit right in with the Warhols and Lichtensteins of the world. If it weren't for his abhorrence of the _capitalist machine_ , she might even believe the illusion.

He looked up at her and she snapped into an Egyptian pose. Illya snorted, and nodded at her wardrobe laid out on a table.

"The shift dress next."

Gaby stared at the outfits and reached for one at random. Illya shook his head.

"No, no. That's the A-line. The shift has the yellow polka dots."

She sighed and took it behind her changing screen. "They look the _same_."

Illya wrinkled his nose, the way he did when she disparaged chess or judo or Tolstoy. "They are completely different. The A-line has a tailored waist, flares out at the end. The shift is cut straight."

 Gaby grumbled and fought to get out of one dress and into the other. If he didn't make such a show of averting his eyes, she would think he enjoyed having her play dress-up for him.

"How do you know so much about women's fashion, anyway?" she huffed as she returned to her place in front of the plain backdrop.

"Undercover mission in Paris. It helped to know the fashions, to keep them from being smuggled in to Moscow."

She scoffed and plucked imaginary lint from her dress. "I'm sure it helped to have fun with Parisian supermodels, too."

"Since when do you know me to have fun?" he expected a smile, his usual reward for self-deprecating humor. Instead through the lens, he could see Gaby look to the side, flippant, pretending to admire the minimalist studio.

"Would that...bother you?" he asked.

"Oh, please." The camera focused on the tendon that jumped in her jaw.

"It's not like you to be jealous."

"You have a monopoly on that now?"

"No...no." It was strangely touching, to see Gaby go green over the idea of him looking at someone else.

"Stop _smirking_ like that," she snapped, then stormed back behind her screen.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm tired. You can take the rest later." She tossed the mod piece of cloth on the ground and tied her robe tightly around her waist.

"Gaby," he said softly. "I do not look at other women."

"Oh, no?"

"No," he affirmed.

She leveled her gaze at him but returned to her stool that stood in front of the backdrop.

"Fine. I believe you."

After a pause he said, "do you?" He didn't know why he would even bother to ask.

"No, I'm not _that_ interested in looking at women." 

His hands fumbled and he nearly knocked the tripod over.

"But you look at—men."

"Does that make _you_ jealous?"

"I— _yes_."

"Then why don't you do something about it?" She looked at him straight through the camera, eyes burning him up, and even though his face was hidden he felt quite exposed.

"If that's—what you want."

She hummed affirmatively.  "I can start you off."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Well, maybe we should take a few for your… _private_ collection." The robe slipped from her shoulders, making a blushing pink pool of silk at her feet.

.

The final gallery, scheduled to lure out the anarchists, features huge and striking portraits of Miss Teller looking simultaneously sweet and mysterious. Both model and artist receive countless compliments for the series. But Illya knows the true masterpieces are the pocket-sized ones, developed carefully and tucked into the lining of his suitcase, forever for his eyes only.

 


	2. The Fortune Teller

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After I wrote this I realized that Gaby Teller is a Fortune Teller. HA! Get it?? I crack myself up y'all

 

"Welcome, Comrade Kuznetsov. Madame Dubois is waiting for you in the next room," Illya greeted the target at the small house's entrance and shook his hand firmly. "How shall we start today, with the palm reading?"

"Of course. I have to say, I'm surprised to hear about Madame Dubois' prowess. I have been a believer for years and I have never heard of her." Illya stifled a scoff. In their line of work, _believer_ often translated to _suggestible,_ which consistently proved useful for their end goals.

"She is new to Budapest. Until recently she worked only in Paris, undiscovered."

"And you discovered her, I take it?"

"If she was going to travel the world, I knew she would need a translator. I will sit in on the reading, if you don't mind. She speaks no Russian, and barely any English."

"Of course, that will be fine."

Illya ushered him through a beaded curtain and into a dimly-lit room that smelled strongly of incense. Solo's doing: he had been in charge of set-up and décor, and naturally went overboard.

Behind the table, Gaby extended a bejeweled hand and the target kissed it lightly.

"Thank you for seeing me on short notice, Madame Dubois. My normal spiritual guide left the city quite suddenly, and I am in need of advice." Illya repeated this quickly in French.

Gaby glanced down and adjusted her outfit, gaudy draped robes and a sparkling headband.

" _Mais,_ of course, _monsieur,"_ she said in her thick faux French accent, the one she had practiced for weeks to perfect. "We begin now."

She studied the target's palm for several minutes, adding the occasional _hm_ or _ah_ for effect, and finally leaned over to Illya and whispered, "Oh, tell him something about how his love line is strong and he's surely found the right one in that ridiculously young new wife of his."

Illya translated what he was told into something more agreeable and Russian.

Kuznetsov's eyes lit up. "Katya is the love of my life. I knew we were destined for each other. And the fate line? It is rare that people have one, you know."

"She knows, yes." Illya whispered back to Gaby, "Something about the fate line?"

"I can't think of anything else, just say whatever comes to mind. Something about independence?" she answered.

"She says—you are a self-made man, who decides his own journey."

"Very true, too true," Kuznetsov nodded.

Gaby smiled. "This is going well. Maybe after, you can search for _my_ love line."

Illya raised an eyebrow at her but strove to stay on topic. "Ah—are you finished with your coffee, Comrade Kuznetsov?"

"Yes, here," he eagerly passed his cup over to the woman and she pretended to stare deeply into the grounds.

Illya was drinking his own when Gaby whispered to him again, "You know, I love the way you sip. It's absolutely _sexy._ "

"Are you alright, Comrade Petrov?" The target asked when Illya choked on his coffee and began coughing.

"Yes, fine," he wheezed. "Um, she says she sees that you have been betrayed in the past by someone close to you. But that person has learned the error of their ways."

"She's absolutely right," he muttered, "I'm glad to hear my damned ex-wife has learned her lesson. But what has changed her mind?"

Illya whispered to Gaby, "he wants to know why his ex-wife regrets the way she treated him. A _real_ answer, please."

Gaby leaned in closer. "I don't know. If she's like me, maybe she misses his enormous co—"

Illya jerked away like her voice had burned him, refused to look at her no-doubt smug expression. "She says she has realized that she threw away a good man and good heart," he reported far too loudly.

Gaby mumbled, "I was going to say 'communist agenda,' Illya. Calm down, you're going to make him suspicious."

"What was that?" the target prodded.

Illya went straight for the proverbial kill of their little hoax: "Madame Dubois says you should also be wary of new partnerships, especially in business. Some do not have your best interest at heart."

Kuznetsov slammed his fist on the table. "I _knew_ those Schwartzmans were up to no good. I need to make a call to my office. We cannot be associated with whatever those Kraut scientists are scheming."

"Would you still like your tarot card reading?"

"No, this was all I needed to hear." He turned to Gaby and addressed her in slow English. "Thank you, Madame Dubois. I will see you next week, I hope."

" _Avec plaisir_ ," she sang.

As soon as Illya returned from bolting the door behind the target, he rounded on her.

"That was _unbelievably_ immature."

"Really? I think it went even better than we expected." 

"You could have completely botched the mission—you are _impossible_ when you do not take things seriously—" Illya was dropping all of his contractions, his _anger articulation_ , Gaby and Napoleon called it affectionately.

Gaby wrapped slender fingers around his jacket lapels. "Oh, _Illyusha_ …" he softened despite himself at the pet name. "Did I fluster you?"

"You know _exactly_ what you were doing."

"But you did so well. And now that he's gone…don't you want to push these gypsy skirts up over my hips, and have me on this—"

The next movement was so rapid, of Illya shoving coffee cups and cards to the floor, damage be damned, and lifting Gaby onto the table, that she nearly lost her breath.

"This is not encouragement," he warned as he tore at the beaded fabric that cruelly separated them.

"Whatever you say."

"Wait—don't stop the French."

"What, my _accent_?" he groaned his affirmation as she pulled at his belt. "And what is it about French, hm? Gypsy woman is a fantasy? Maybe a boyhood crush on Esmeralda?"

"Remember, you are not actually a psychic."

"But am I right?"

"It was—Carmen, actually."

"Really?" _This_ was an interesting discovery for her. "From the opera?"

"Is—that alright?"

" _Mais oui, bien sur, monsieur. C'est bon._ "

 


End file.
